


Cut You Like an Arrow (There's Something in the Shadows)

by Zippit



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon AU - Character Not Recruited by SHIELD, Canon AU - Characters Met Differently, Canon AU - Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7270492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zippit/pseuds/Zippit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natalia Romanova walks into SHIELD HQ, brazen as day, with Clint Barton's name on her lips.</p><p>It’s 4:07p.m. on a Wednesday in August and Clint’s life as he knows it has come to a crashing end. It breaks up the monotony and the heat stroke death induced by being in the city at least. </p><p>Or how Clint's life turns out nothing like he ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut You Like an Arrow (There's Something in the Shadows)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).



> I'm not sure I hit all the AU scenarios exactly the way they're phrased. They may be just slightly off kilter but I hope it's an enjoyable take on things anyway.
> 
> I had plans to write more than one fic, which still may end up happening at some point along with a possible continuation of this. So maybe, eventually, you'll have more stuff coming your way.

It's 4:07p.m. on a Wednesday in August and one of the rare occasions Clint is tied to his desk at the Triskelion. The fact he actually has a desk still surprises him sometimes. There's no mission to pull him away though he still has his wrist guard and leg braces nearby. He may be lazy about some things but no one's going to fault him for being unprepared. He's got his feet kicked up on the stack of paperwork occupying the corner of his desk. He should probably fill those out. But they've already waited two weeks. What's a couple more hours?

He frowns at the frayed cuffs on his jeans. There's a smudge of something unidentifiable on the edge of one. It's not that he cares but unidentifiable substances in his line of work aren't the best things to take home. He does a quick scan of the t-shirt he'd pulled on this morning. It's free and clear of stains. He brushes at the lunch sandwich crumbs scattered across the soft, faded purple then tilts his head side to side. The crackling release of tension is interrupted by the hisspop of the intercom system.

"BARTON. Get your ass to interrogation room eight _now_."

He overbalances in his chair, sending him flailing as his feet thunk to the floor and he smacks his hand against his desk. He stares in the general direction of the loudspeaker. What the hell is going on? He hasn't done anything to warrant the third degree from Fury. Not yet this week anyway.

He grabs his wrist guard and slides it on because it's better if he has something to do with his hands. He learned quick that knife play wasn't the best idea when in the presence of Nick Fury. As he hurries down the rows of desks, there’s a rising murmur of voices and even the occasional head watching his progress. He has the uneasy feeling this is a bigger shitstorm than he really wants to be a part of but he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

His phone buzzes in his pocket with the distinct triple beat of a message from Coulson. He’s made it to the elevator and jabbed the negative 8th floor button several times while bouncing on his heels impatiently before he finally pulls out his phone. It’s a simple text. The man was always succinct and to the point: _Widow came in out of the cold. Knows your name_. 

Clint swears his heart stops and the world narrows to the letters on his screen. He sucks in a breath and scrubs a hand over his face several times. A quick glance at the elevator panel shows the thing isn’t moving nearly fast enough. That’d explain why Fury wants him down in interrogation like ten minutes ago.

Jesus Christ. How the hell did the Widow, of all people, know _his_ name? What had he done to get on _her_ radar? He knew enough about her to know why she was on SHIELD’s. There’d been rumblings for a while now about a mission being put together to take her down. No longer working for her former masters, she’d quickly become a personal thorn in SHIELD’s side by simply taking on the assignments that paid the most, which happened to go against SHIELD’s interests. Her skill set and history would demand no less. Things had to be a challenge, right? Otherwise, why go by the name Black Widow and have the reputation she had?

He shook his head. Now was not the time to wax poetical about someone that had just turned his life upside down. Coulson frowned on any faint admiration of the Widow. But hey, she’s in the same profession he is. What’s a little professional fanboying? Especially because if that SHIELD mission to take her down had borne fruit, he had an inkling it would’ve been handed to him. He was a bit unorthodox, they let him run around with a bow and arrow after all, but he got things done. No matter what he had to do to get there.

He’s not exactly running but he sure as hell isn’t taking his time. He slows his steps as he nears the door to interrogation eight. He takes a deep breath before he pulls the door open to step inside. As expected, Fury’s skulking in front of the viewing window with his arms crossed behind his back and even from here there’s tension radiating off him. The leather of his black coat is stretched taut across his shoulders. Hill’s on the computer console, fingers flying over the keys, pulling up every bit of information they have on the Widow. She looks perfectly put together in her regulation SHIELD field uniform, ear piece in place and brown hair neatly tucked behind her ear. Coulson is tucked against the far wall with an eye on Fury, Hill, and the viewing window. He’s dressed in a neatly pressed suit that looks just this side of government issue and inclines his head slightly at Clint.

Fury spins on his heel to glare at him with his one good eye then waves an expansive hand back at the woman sitting in the room behind him. “Care to explain this?”

His voice is dangerously calm. No inflection at all. Just the simple slide of words out of his mouth. Clint allows himself to take a look at the woman codenamed Black Widow. She’s a redhead, because of course. She’s dressed in black jeans and a deep green t-shirt that only further illustrates why her codename is what it is. On the petite side, probably not even 5’5” if Clint doesn’t miss his guess. She’s relaxed, right leg crossed over the left at the knee, and leaned back in the chair with her hands resting in her lap like she has all the time in the world. Clint may be all sorts of fucked.

She _walked_ into the Triskelion, past all their security and checkpoints. She _gave herself up_ and asked for him. The klaxon sirens are going off loud and clear in his head. If Clint was her, the only way he’d do any of this was if he knew without a shadow of a doubt he could get back out on his own. Okay, maybe more like bust his way out and _survive_. He manages to find his voice. “No, sir, I don’t even know where to start. I swear to God I’ve never met this woman before in my life. I have no idea how she knows my name.”

Fury continues to glare at him with a glint in his eye like if he could dissect Clint right there he would. It’s not a very reassuring look. Clint shifts from one foot to the other and fiddles with the support wire wrapped around his wrist. He’s gotten lippy with Fury before. If he did that right now, he’d probably end up in the adjacent interrogation room and in far less pleasant conditions.

“Hill, report.”

She pivots the seat to face them. “Every protocol has been run and every parameter checked and triple checked. There is no possible overlap between Barton and the Widow based upon our detailed history of his life and what we can say for certain about the Widow’s.”

Clint’s eyebrows have inched toward his hairline. Protocols? Detailed history of his life? He’d joined SHIELD knowing he’d be trading in the military for a sketchy shadow section of government he didn’t know anything about. Mostly, he’d joined because of Coulson. Something told him to trust Coulson. Clint wasn’t stupid. He could look at the bigger picture along with the small details. His life would never be the same but in a way he probably could live with. So he’d trusted his gut and joined up. It hadn’t let him down. Except when it came to family. Family sucked some days.

“As I already told you when I stepped foot into this room,” Coulson says in the mildest tone Clint’s ever heard, “Agent Barton was not secretly a sleeper agent.” See, his gut wasn’t wrong. Coulson was good people.

Fury openly scowls then spins back to the viewing window. “Still had to be done. Not that it helps us here. We have the Red Room’s top asset sitting in our interrogation room, of her own free will no less, and we got nothing to work with.”

The silence hangs heavy on his shoulders. There’s not even the distraction of a ticking clock because they now live in a digital world and something something about secret spy organizations needing synchronized clocks.

“Well, I might have a suggestion, sir,” Coulson says. He’s stepped away from the wall and come to stand next to Clint. “She came here for a reason.”

“I already know what you’re gonna say. Barton, get your ass in there and make this worth our while instead of just shit hitting the fan.”

They want him, alone in a room, with one of the deadliest people on the planet. Who for some unfathomable reason knows him. The last place he wants to be _might_ be putting it mildly. He looks at Coulson out of the corner of his eye and gets a slight shrug in response. If he doesn’t go in, he’ll likely be subjected to some intense questioning and evaluation. It’s unlikely they’d label him as a traitor or sleeper agent but the rumor mill will be spinning.

“No weapons, right?” Clint jokes and makes a show of patting himself down, pulling out a standard issue pen and placing it on the filing cabinet beside the door. He curls his left hand into a fist, testing the stretch and give of his wrist guard and wipes all emotion off his face. He nods and there’s the bzzt of a release and the door clicks unlocked. He pushes it open and steps inside.

Romanova looks up and Clint looks into green green eyes filled with curiosity. He is so fucked. How much of that emotion is true and how much is she allowing him to see? He pulls out the chair across from her, flips it around so he can straddle it, then curls his hands around the seat back. He lets his gaze roam over her from her hairline to her eyes to her mouth, down her shoulders to her hands, and over her torso. He doesn’t let his gaze linger. His perusal gets an elegantly arched eyebrow from her.

His play may have been a mistake, maybe. He could’ve played into her reputation and seen where that would’ve taken him. A part of him says that would’ve been the greater mistake. No, they’re professionals, colleagues of a sort, and she deserves that respect from him instead of him ogling her like every man she's probably ever met.

“Widow.”

“Archer, or what is it they call you, Hawkeye?”

“I hear you came looking for me. Want to tell me why?”

“I’ve grown tired of looking over my shoulder. Whether it’s SHIELD or my former masters or some other player entirely, it gets old.”

Her English is flawless. However they trained her, wherever they trained her, her teacher had been excellent. There’s a trace of non-American in her sentence flow but again it begs the question of what she’s allowing them to see and what the truth is.

“Why us? Why not MI-6 or the FBI or Mossad or a million other agencies? What appeals to you about us?”

She smiles at him. If she was gorgeous before, she’s stunning now. Clint swallows and curls his hands tighter around the chair back. Could she kill him with his own wrist guard? Could he stop her if she tried anything? He’s a little hopelessly outmatched here.

“You’re less liable to kill me when you could use me instead,” she says it simply and when put like that Clint can’t argue with the logic behind it.

“That’s your only reason?”

“It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement for both of us.” She looks toward the viewing glass and Clint has the unerring feeling she’s locked eyes with Fury through it. She returns her gaze to him and slips into Russian. “ _You fascinate me. Your preferred weapon of choice for this profession is a bow and arrow. Highly recognizable, highly unique. And yet you continue to use it_.”

Highly traceable goes unsaid. He’s had to learn to disguise his methods and he’s gotten good at it. But not good enough to fool the Widow. Survive long enough in this profession, you start picking up the tells of your competition.

His response is also in flawless Russian. “ _So, I’m just a fascination. And when you get bored_?”

“ _My first reason still stands_.”

They both look at the door when it opens soundlessly and Coulson steps in. “It seems we have much to discuss, Ms. Romanova. If you could please continue the rest of this conversation in English, I’d appreciate it. Not all of us are fluent like Agent Barton.”

He whispers to Coulson in the corridor outside the interrogation room, “You realize I have no hope of stopping her if it came down to it.”

“I think you underestimate yourself, Barton. If nothing else, put some stock in the fact she took notice of you. I don’t think many manage to catch her attention.”

Coulson’s words don’t do much to quell the doubts circling his head or the suspicion that they’re all making the biggest mistake of their lives. That’s only the beginning of a series of the strangest days of Clint’s life. It ends with Coulson being his and _Natasha’s_ handler and Clint assigned as her partner. 


End file.
